Theme Week #5

When I was little I didn’t have a lot of friends.  I loved to hang out with my sisters and contrary to popular opinion, homeschooling keeps you very busy, so I didn’t really think about it.  I had good aquantences at church and that was enough for me.  

When I was twelve though, I made a good friend.  She had long blond hair that fell down to her waist, and she loved bunnies.  In fact, that was how we met.  I bred and sold rabbits with my sister (it was our own little business) and she came to our house to buy one.  We seemed to hit it right off, probably because we had plenty in common.  We both loved rabbits, we were both writers, we both were homeschooled, and we both didn’t mind continuing our friendship through letters.  Since she lived three hours away, there was no other practical answer to how we could have stayed friends.

 So the letters began exchanging.  From house to house they went, and suddenly checking the mail became a lot of fun.  It was a lovely friendship, almost Utopian.  We were there for each other, but never in each other’s face.  We met up once in a while, but we weren’t needy or over-bearing.  We talked about everything from our latest novel, to our families, to our hopes and dreams for the future.
  

But then we started to grow up.  It’s funny, but I was almost blind to the fact that we were growing apart.  In hindsight I guess I knew it was happening.  Little things in our letters clued me in to the fact that we weren’t always on the same page anymore.  But I ignored it, wishing it away and thinking it was all in my mind.

Then, two summers ago, we spent an entire day together at her family's camp.  We had a lot of fun, the weather was perfect and we did exactly as we wanted all day long.  We lazed around in her hammock talking about our novels, we had an adventure in kayaks on the lake (apparently snapping turtles can grow to be really big), and we spent the night in our own little tent.  

It was a good day, though I felt an odd undercurrent.  Something was a bit strange with my friend, but I didn’t get it.  I figured she was just feeling a little off that day though, and I moved on.

Life became busy, and I barely noticed the decreasing stream of letters.  I was terribly busy with school so I simply assumed that she was too. I wish it had been that simple.

Finally, feeling bad for the small amount of letters sent her way, I invited her to my house for a Christmas party.  This was last year, the first week of December.  I began devising plans for cookies to bake, movies to watch, and blankets to snuggle beneath in the chilly winter month.  I settled down to wait for her answer.  

I waited, and I waited.  I had sent my letter in the beginning of December, but it was the week of Christmas (only three days before!) that I received my answer.  I remember walking out to get the mail that day, with my breath all foggy and the sky all dark even though it was only 4pm.  I think it might have been snowing that day, and the house smelled like Christmas.  I had been having a hard time getting into the Christmas spirit that year (which is very unusual for me) but it had sort of clicked for me that week.  Sure, it was the week of Christmas and that’s a little late in the game, but better late than never.    

So when I grabbed the envelopes and sorted through the bills to the bottom of the stack, there was a definite sense of relief when I came to her letter.  I had begun to worry (as I always did when she took longer than usual to answer) that perhaps my letter never reached her.  Maybe it was lost on the way!  But my mind was calmed by the letter.  It was a little too late to get together for Christmas by this time, but it was good to hear from her anyways.  We would just have to get together for a post-Christmas party.  

I remember showing the letter to my Mom, and telling her that it felt thick so it must be a long letter.  I remember sharing a smile with her as I tore open the letter, expectant, eager.  After reading most of the first paragraph, I stopped and decided it would be better to read it in my room.  I took it upstairs and sat alone on my bed with her words.

Slowly, I digested the two-page long, computer-typed letter.  Still confused, I read it again.  She was breaking up with me.  She was breaking up with me?  Friends don’t break up with each other!  That doesn’t even happen… except apparently, to me.   Her first paragraph told me of how she wasn’t comfortable around me anymore, and the next three paragraphs (nice and orderly, like an essay) detailed just exactly why we weren’t good friends.  It was me.   

She listed my faults and even gave examples to back up her points.  She told me that I never thought her ideas were good enough, she insisted that I was always too competitive and never let her win, and she finished with a resounding jab at how ungrateful I was.  Funny, but I didn’t cry that day.  I just showed the letter to my Mom, who knew this friend of mine well and was surprised and angry.  She asked me how I was that night, but I just smiled and said it was silly.  I shrugged it off and went to bed.  Then I cried.

I cried for the emptiness she had left in heart by ripping herself out of it.  I cried for the utter betrayal of it all. She gave examples of how terrible I was from years ago.  How long had she spent feeling this way and not telling me?  I guess she never could bolster herself enough to be honest with me.  Instead, she smiled at my face and resented me underneath.  I wondered how long this had been going on.  One year?  Two?  All five?  I trusted her with my secrets, with my stories, with my heart.  Yet underneath her smiling veneer, she almost hated me.

After about a month (I felt it would be wise not to answer he letter right away) I wrote back.  I gently defended my actions in some of the examples she had provided, and apologized for other actions of mine.  Of course I knew that I wasn’t perfect, but isn’t that what friendship is all about?  The give-and-take of acceptance?  I diplomatically told her that her inability to be honest with me for all this time hurt.  Then I sent it out. 

I’m not sure what I expected in return.  An apology for slamming me so hard?  A retort at my defenses?  A final goodbye to tell me to stop writing to her?  What I got was worse than all of these.  She gave me nothing. There were no angry words to seal my sadness in anger towards her; no apology to revive what we had lost.  There was only puzzling, heart-wrenching, screaming silence.  

I’ve thought about her a lot since.  I've noticed how her breaking up with me affected the friendships that I tried to forge while working at a summer camp this past summer.  I wasn't very trusting, especially at first.  I smiled to everyone, trying to be as friendly and accomodating as I could.  I didn't want anyone else to get so upset by who I was.  

I mentioned something about my friend to my sister a few months ago, but she only laughed and asked, “You still remember all that?”  I guess sometimes the things that hurt us the most can’t be understood or shared with others.  

I can’t help but think of how I could’ve done better, how I might have changed all of this.  What’s the moral of this story?  Become perfect so no one will ever be mad that you aren’t?  Depend on people hurting you?  Quit trying to make friends because people are just waiting to find a reason to hate you?  

I’m not sure what the moral of the story is.  But I think it lies somewhere in the area of honesty.  I guess Billy Joel was right;  honesty is such a lonely word.  But it was mostly what I needed from her.